Beauvayse says, in the whispering voice interrupted by long, gasping sighs that are beginning to have a jarring rattle in them:
"Before to-morrow.... I shall know more of God ... than the whole Bench of Bishops."
There is silence. And she does not come. The man on the bed makes a painful effort, gathering his nearly-spent forces for something he wants to say:
"Doctor!"
"Let me wipe your forehead. Yes?"
"I ... insulted you frightfully the other day."
"You need not recall that. I have forgotten it."
"I ... beg your pardon! Will you ... shake hands?... My left, if you don't mind. The other one's ... no good."
He tries to lift the heavy arm that lies beside him. There is only a faint movement of the finger-tips, and he gives up the effort with a fluttering sob. And the square white face with the burning eyes under the lowering brows opposes itself to his. Words are crowding to Saxham's lips:
"I would gladly shake the hand of the man who insulted me and who has apologised. And I honour the brave officer who meets Death upon the field. But with the would-be betrayer of an innocent girl, the dancing-woman's husband who proposed himself as mate for Lynette Mildare, I have nothing but contempt and abhorrence. He is to me a leper. Worse, for the leper I would touch to cure!"